


sick beat

by tzrbup



Series: disparate youth [1]
Category: Avengers (Comics), Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel (Comics), Young Avengers (Comics)
Genre: Gen, also shes in college. for the first few chapters at least., and then.... BEYOND, because I love her, im not an industrial design major so you cant accuse me of projecting in that particular instance, shes an industrial design major, sort of a retelling of 2012 hawkeye from kates pov
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-17
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-09-20 18:27:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17027766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tzrbup/pseuds/tzrbup
Summary: essentially hawkeye 2012 (and beyonddddd) from kate's pov“follow your arrow - kacey musgraves” - clint barton





	1. sick beat

**Author's Note:**

> hello everyone! ive been promising this fic for a while but have consistently failed to actually deliver anything beyond random snippets and the reason for that is that i keep writing pieces of it that are wayyyyy far up in the timeline of my outline and not, like, the actual first chapter. but i took my vyvanse the other day and finished the first chapter! so here it is. hope you enjoy  
> title is from 'sick beat' by kero kero bonito

The call wakes Kate up at 1, which is weird because normally she sleeps like the dead. The caller ID flashes a number she doesn’t recognize. She slips out of bed and tiptoes into the hall as quietly as she can.

“Hello?” she mumbles.

“Katie, hey.” It’s Clint. She should’ve guessed. Before she can correct him, he keeps talking. “Can you meet me at my place? Soon? Now?”

“Clint, what? It’s one. It’s Tuesday. What?”

“Bring your gear okay thanks bye,” he says, voice fading like he’s already putting the phone down; sure enough, the sentence ends with the abrupt _CLICK_ of his stupid landline headset being set down.

Kate stands in the hallway fuming for a minute. She could not go. She could go get back in bed and be well-rested for her 9am tomorrow. She could—

She goes back inside to get changed. Fucking _Clint._

No point in changing her PJ shirt, just shimmy into the first pair of jeans and throw on a cardigan—fell asleep on her art history textbook but there’s nothing to be done now about the two-day-old mascara crumbles caked under her eyes—grab the go-baggie of a day’s worth of meds—grab the gear bag—pull back her knotted hair—double knot her shoelaces—ready.

She curses Clint when she steps out into the chill night air. Again when the guard posted outside her dorm gives her a doubtful look. A third time as she kicks her bike into gear. Asshole probably broke the coffee maker (again) and needs her to fix it (again). Or he wants her to walk Lucky. Or he—whatever. It doesn’t matter. The point is that the reason is definitely stupid, and he’s an asshole. And she’s the stupidest asshole of all, because she knows he’s a stupid asshole and she’s going anyway.

She lets herself in because Clint is a stupid asshole who doesn’t lock his door.

“Hi, Katie,” Clint says from where he’s pinned in a deeply uncomfortable-looking position by an enormous, tattooed man.

“I don’t… want to know.” Kate says tiredly. The large man presses his knee down a little harder, making Clint wince.

“Hey, sweetheart. Your dad here—” he starts.

“I SAID,” Kate says, loudly, “I DON’T! Want to KNOW!”

A ladle—the first thing she’d managed to grab out of the kitchen drawer Clint had left half-open like some kind of animal—collides with the large man’s temple with a deeply satisfying _GONG_ noise and he topples over off of Clint.

“Also, weird!” Kate adds as an afterthought, nudging the big guy’s shoulder with the toe of her purple sneaker. Clint sits up and stretches. His spine makes the worst noise Kate has maybe ever heard.

“Was that it?” she asks, hopping up to sit on his counter, mindful of the fact that it’s covered in… newspaper clippings?

“Walk on my back?” Clint says hopefully. Kate reaches towards the open drawer again. Clint puts his hands up in front of him. “Point taken!” He glances around his apartment vacantly for a moment. “Uh… wanna help me lug this guy out of my building?”

“Only if I get to be at the top of the stairs.”

“Done.”

“And check his pockets.”

“Atta girl.”

 

“Hey, Kate,” says the girl Kate sits next to in her Tuesday morning class. “Kate.” She pokes Kate in the shoulder lightly. Kate jumps.

“Huh?”

“Are you… good? You’ve been falling asleep, like, every five seconds.”

“I’m good!” Kate says, tossing in some fingerguns for good measure. “Just, like, had a late night, you know how it is.” The girl nods.

“Totally. Sorry to bother you.”

 

What Kate wants to know is who plans a gala like this on a _THURSDAY_. Some people have class on Fridays. Far be it from her to complain about a reason to get dressed up—except she can’t even enjoy that because, one, she has to worry about making Clint look presentable (which had required renting him a suit, because he apparently only owned one, which was shit-brown and three sizes too big), two, she knows people here and she’s really not in the mood to get her cheeks pinched or get asked any questions about her family.

But, whatever. It’s a good excuse as any to let off steam. Except, fucking of course, she gets _shot_ , and if that isn’t embarrassing enough as it is she cries out for Clint purely on instinct, and then she’s in his arms and she’s still shooting because the bad guys are still shooting and she’s pissed about getting _shot_ and then there’s glass everywhere and they’re freefalling and oh, good, they’re underwater. Fantastic.

By the time Kate drags herself out of the water she’s seeing red and these shitheads are still shooting. She nocks four arrows and goes for the eyes, because fuck you.

“Did I get him?”

“In the eyes, Kate—”

“They’re not dead, they’re just blinded now. For life, probably.”

“Yeah, no, I know,” Clint says. “Still. It’s grim.”

“Barton.” says the ringmaster, who’s been slowly pacing towards them since the beginning of this exchange with his swords dragging obnoxiously on the floor and who they’ve both been pointedly ignoring. Clint rolls his eyes—and then he sees Kate’s leg again and something in his posture changes, hardens, as he turns around slowly.

On the boat, Clint makes her sit still while he checks out her leg. He gets this guilty-sad look in his eyes like a kicked puppy.

“Oh, Katie—” he starts, voice heavy.

“Stop it.” She says huffily, and he does, but he also keeps letting out these dumb sad sighs while he bandages her leg and he makes her let him wrap her in a blanket he finds in one of the cabins, and then he stands at the wheel with his shoulders hunched all weird.

“Stop it!” she says again. Clint turns away from the wheel to face her.

“Stop what?” he asks.

“Stop making that stupid face.” Clint frowns and turns back to the wheel.

“I’m not making a face. You couldn’t even see my face.”

“I could feel you making a face. That’s how stupid the face was.” Kate says, crossing her arms.

“You can’t feel that someone is making a face. It’s a visual thing. You have to see it.” Clint insists.

“Nope,” Kate says. “If it’s stupid enough, you can feel it in the air. It’s lowering my IQ as we speak.” That one gets a weak chuckle out of him. Encouraged, Kate continues. “You better stop. I don’t know the risks of prolonged exposure. What if I forget how to read, Clint? What if your dumb face makes me forget how to read?”

“Young lady, I will turn this boat around,” Clint warns.

“Are you sure you can?” Kate says dubiously.

“Screw you,” Clint laughs. “I’m great at boats.”

 

“Jesus,” says the girl Kate sits next to her in Friday morning class, looking up from her book. Her eyes move curiously from the bandage around Kate’s leg to the crutch Clint dug up out of his closet to the bandages and bruises on the rest of her. “What the hell happened?”

“Got hit by a car on my bike.” Kate says, easing into her chair.

“Oh,” the girl says, though she doesn’t sound entirely convinced. “Uh. That sucks. Sorry.”

“‘S fine. I knew the risks when I got started.” The girl raises her eyebrows, and Kate backpedals quickly. “Got started riding bikes, I mean! When I was seven! I put on my helmet and my dad said ‘Sweetie, these streets are dangerous, you know,’ and to that I said—”

“Sure.” the girl says, and turns back to her book.


	2. killer bangs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint rolls his face back into the rug.   
> Kate sighs. “Okay, well, I’m meeting Billy for dinner, so if this,” Kate gestures at Clint’s prone form, “is your plan for the rest of the night, I’m just gonna head out early.” Clint grumbles a vague assent to the floor. Kate stops by the front door.   
> “Can I have the last popsicle?” she asks.  
> “No,” says Clint.  
> “Dope, thanks,” she says, and takes it.

Kate gets another call that night as she’s easing into bed, careful to keep her weight off her bad leg. She’s got Clint’s number saved this time. Her roommate’s not home, so she picks up. The conversation that follows is, predictably, awkward as hell, but… he wants her help. He wants to be a team. Sure, she can do that. She’ll probably have to drop at least one class, but it’s doable. Hopefully.

The next few days pass largely without incident. She goes to class, goes over to Clint’s once or twice to practice and shoot the shit and ends up getting roped into helping him sort through his old DVDs. Clint runs out of patience or maybe energy about an hour in, and she waits indulgently while he lays on the floor in defeat for a minute or two. When two minutes turns into three, she decides to entertain herself the best way she knows how: bothering Clint.

“So… why do you have so many DVDs, anyway?”

“Uh,” Clint says into the rug. He does not elaborate.

“Uh?” Kate prompts, shoving her foot between his ribs. He rolls face-up to get away and shoots her an unhappy look.

“I mean, to watch? They’re DVDs.”

“You don’t have a DVD player.” 

Clint rolls his face back into the rug. Kate sighs. “Okay, well, I’m meeting Billy for dinner, so if this,” Kate gestures at Clint’s prone form, “is your plan for the rest of the night, I’m just gonna head out early.” Clint grumbles a vague assent to the floor. Kate stops by the front door. 

“Can I have the last popsicle?” she asks.

“No,” says Clint.

“Dope, thanks,” she says, and takes it. “See you later, have fun with This House Has People In It 2.” Clint mumbles something that sounds like ‘brat’ as the door closes behind her.

One of Clint’s neighbors—the pink-haired gothy one—nearly runs Kate down with her bike when she walks outside.

“Oh, hey, kid. Sorry about that,” Pink Hair says, pulling of her helmet. “You okay?”

Kate raises an eyebrow. “Kid? You don’t look old enough to call me—or anybody—a kid.” Pink Hair shrugs.

“It’s my good genes, I guess. Hey, you’re the one who’s always hanging out with Clint, right? No offense, but—can I ask why?”

Kate laughs. “I ask myself that all the time. But I don’t hang out with him. He hangs out with me.” Kate is very pleased with her snappy one-liner, and files it away for future use. She sticks her hand out. “I’m Kate. Friendly neighborhood sad-bastard-wrangler.” Pink Hair grins and shakes her hand.

“Aimee. Friendly neighborhood munchies deliverer.” She pats her bike seat affectionately. She gives Kate a deliberate once-over then, one that makes Kate’s stomach flutter a little. “Well, Kate, if you ever get tired of wrangling sad bastards, I’m in unit A. I’ve got probably better coffee and definitely better music.”

Kate smiles, her cheeks slightly warm for reasons that are beyond her.

“I’ll make sure to remember that, Aimee in unit A.”

“Do!” Aimee says as she finishes locking her bike. She tosses Kate a lazy two-finger salute as she enters the building, and Kate waves back dumbly. She turns to walk away and immediately trips over the curb, narrowly catching herself before she eats pavement.

 

Clint is on some kind of spring cleaning kick, apparently, because a day or two later he has her over to organize his dumbass arrows. A few of them are kinda cool—not that she would ever tell him that—but most of them are so ridiculous that she wonders, definitely not for the first time and probably not the last, how the hell he’s stayed alive this long. Possibly the worst indecency of the whole thing is that he’s having her label them with carefully-rationed scraps of masking tape and a Sharpie that looks as though someone ground its nib into pavement.

Clint runs out of tape (just like Kate had said he would before they started) and just sort of sits down on the floor. She doesn’t want a repeat of the DVD incident, so she starts asking him questions about his various bad arrows to try to keep him engaged; predictably, he is more than happy to explain the exact dumb purpose of each dumb arrow to her in agonizing detail.

“Like this here,” he says, holding up Dumb Arrow Number Eighty. “Boomerang arrow, Kate—it comes back to you in the end. Boomerang. Respect it.” Clint says all this as if it is a perfectly reasonable thing for an arrow to do.

“Why the hell do you need an arrow that comes back to you after you shoot it, Clint?” Kate presses, desperate to know the thought process—if there was one—behind this.

“Because… boomerangs,” Clint says, very slowly, as if she’s having trouble keeping up with his genius or something. She doesn’t dignify it with a response. “We’re out of coffee,” she says instead.

“We,” mutters Clint sarcastically as he heads out the door.

Kate amuses herself while Clint is gone by snooping through his stuff. She ignores his Pepe Silvia wall map—boring—and heads for his massive bookshelves, which (surprising no one who knows Clint) are largely not full of books. Instead, they’re mostly full of

  1. piles of things;
  2. sad and/or old and/or weird stuff;
  3. boxes;
  4. piles of sad and/or old and/or weird stuff; and
  5. boxes of sad and/or old and/or weird stuff.



 

There’s one box full of dog-themed calendars (none of which are for the current year, or any of the past three years, for that matter), one that holds a large rubber band ball in a nest of loose rubber bands (Kate texts a picture to Tommy captioned “think itll hatch?”), a box of  _ literally _ just rocks, and (somewhat distressingly) a box of corrosive and/or flammable substances that should almost definitely not be kept  _ together _ in a  _ shoebox. _ There’s a box of Bed Bath & Beyond coupons, several of which have been expired for years, and a box full of unused rolls of masking tape, which makes Kate stare into space exasperatedly for a good minute. She puts it in front of the door so it’ll be very visible (and trip-over-able) when Clint gets back. Which, realistically, he should have already, but then again, it’s Clint, so.

There’s a stack of old Polaroids rubber banded together; most of them are of a several-years-younger Mockingbird looking as badass and beautiful as ever, but a choice few are of Clint in increasingly questionable outfits. Kate pockets a few of those for blackmail and for laughs. A glance at one of the pathetically small piles of books reveals that Clint owns a lot of mint-condition, spine-uncracked self help books, including several duplicate copies. Probably gifts, Kate thinks with a snort. There are a few stacks of CDs—mostly dad rock, predictably, but also bizarrely a signed Jonas Brothers live album addressed “to the C-man” and a still-shrink-wrapped copy of The Black Parade. Under a stack of takeout menus she finds a classic Hawkeye cowl. She yanks it on immediately and sends a dozen selfies to a groupchat with Billy and Teddy.

Another box reveals a Beanie Baby sheep serving as the adorable but useless guardian of an old-looking notebook, which turns out to be full of ideas for and shitty sketches of trick arrows. Kate knows that lingering on Clint’s bad ideas will lead only to headaches, so she puts it back. She’s just sitting down to go ham on the first Etch-A-Sketch she’s seen in possibly a decade when Clint’s obnoxious landline rings.

“Hi, Clint. Why do you still have a phone with a cord on a wall?” she says dryly. It is a  _ total  _ guess, but it pays off when she’s right and she gets to hear him sputter in surprise.

“How did you know it was me?”

“Who else would be calling your sad ass?”

“I—What? Lots of people,” Clint says defensively. “Captain America, one time.” Kate rolls her eyes at the namedrop. She still thinks Cap is kind of a prick.

Clint is calling her because he needs something from her, obviously—a ride this time. She sighs and steps over the tape box to get out the door.

“Hey, kid,” Aimee from Unit A calls up the stairs. “Where ya headed that you’re looking that excited? Also, nice outfit. But what’s with the—”

“I’m going to pick up everyone’s favorite oversized toddler from daycare,” Kate says, and gets a sympathetic grimace in return. “Also, the holes are a secret. Like that story about the girl with the ribbon around her neck. I can’t tell you til I’m on my deathbed.”

“Damn,” Aimee says. “Do I have to marry you like in the story, too?” 

Kate sputters, unable to find a response fast enough. Aimee grins and gives her her signature two-fingered salute as the door to Unit A closes.

“Daycare” turns out to be a shitty motel, and before Kate can even finish telling herself not to think about why Clint was at a shitty motel, Clint gets in her car shirtless with his fly down because he is an asshole, and she is going to have to burn and/or bleach her seats. Fortuitously (depending on how you look at it) they’re out of her car sooner rather than later; while Clint deals with the tracksuited (former) passengers, Kate hops into the driver’s seat.

“How’s it gonna feel deep down in your man-bits when I drive this car better than you ever dreamed was possible?” Kate snipes at Clint. “Cause I’m about to.”  
“Don’t dangle your prepositions like that, girly-girl,” he replies, which isn’t fair at all because she’s still not convinced he even knows how to read.

The car chase-slash-kidnapping rescue goes as well as can be expected, up to and including the part where Clint gets knocked out and Kate has to save his ass with the dumbest of his dumb arrows. If this becomes a pattern, she is gonna be  _ pissed _ .

The lady they saved is pretty in that kind of tacky way, garishly dyed red hair and dark-lined eyes and foundation settled into the lines of her face. She also doesn’t thank Kate? Which, like… Kate feels like, given that she did all the work while Clint napped on the pavement  _ and _ she fucked up her own car, she maybe deserves a “thanks,” maybe even a free coffee or a card of some kind, but, whatever. She’d blame it on Clint’s taste in women (God knows she loves blaming Clint for anything and everything, including minor inconveniences in her daily life that Clint is nowhere near) but actually, Clint seems to consistently end up with women who are way, way out of his league, so this is an anomaly. She scuffs her shoe on the sidewalk sulkily. Then she sees the lady thank Clint—well, more accurately, she is held captive and forced to watch in horror while the lady’s tongue thanks Clint’s tongue, loudly and wetly, for way too long. She decides she’s actually good without a thank-you and that saving the day and doing what’s right is what’s really important. She feels a little more noble and self-righteous for it, which, she muses, must be how Captain America feels all the time.

The upside of what turned out to be, overall, a pretty shitty day is that the satisfaction she gains from watching Clint trip on the tape box and go ass-over-teakettle into his apartment is tripled.

 

Kate heads back over to Clint’s building on a whim one day after class, but hesitates on her way up the stairs. A moment of deliberation and… oh, what the hell. She marches down the hall and raps firmly on the door of Unit A.

“One sec!” Aimee’s voice calls from inside, muffled. There are some quick footsteps and then the door opens, letting Aimee’s music and a distinctive skunky smell leak into the hallway. “Oh! Hey, kid!” Aimee says, smiling broadly.

“Still not a kid,” Kate says, but she’s smiling. Aimee opens the door wider; Kate can see a little ways into her apartment, enough to see that it’s very Aimee: the furniture and decor all seem straight out of a cooler, more grown-up Hot Topic, and there’s quite a few items of dark clothing scattered haphazardly over the floor and draped over furniture.

“Wanna come in?” Aimee asks.

“Yeah, why not?” Kate shrugs, and steps past her. Aimee’s apartment is very different from Clint’s. It’s smaller, first off—or maybe it just feels that way because of how populated with Stuff it is. There’s a couch that has certainly seen better days, which is flanked on either side by beanbag chairs. In front of them is a large coffee table with heavy-looking wheels. Lining the poster-covered walls are a few mismatched shelves crammed full of books and knick-knacks and two large speakers from which some punk girl is wailing over angry bass. 

Aimee guides Kate to have a seat at her kitchen island while she gets them coffee. She pulls out two mugs; one is stamped with a heart patterned with lines in varying shades of pink, and the other simply declares in bold letters “I’M ONE.” Kate, not wanting to look dumb, decides not to ask.

“What band is this?” Kate asks as Aimee passes her the I’M ONE mug. 

“Kitten Forever!” Aimee says. “I found them because someone at the record store said they were kind of similar to Jack Off Jill and—” Kate sips her coffee and nods attentively while whatever Aimee is saying goes in one ear and out the other. She’s so focused on nodding that it takes her a minute to realize Aimee is asking her a question. She blushes.

“Sorry, what?”  
“I was just asking how you met Clint,” says Aimee. Kate winces. Oh boy. There is no normal-people low-key way to say “I took his name because he was dead, and then I yelled at him when he was Captain America for a minute, and then he ambushed me on a date because I took his name because he was dead, and then he took his bow back from me, and then I robbed the Avengers to get it back, and then—” She thinks some more. There was the time she got held for ransom and he was part of the rescue—  
“I’ve known him since I was a little kid,” she half-lies, and doesn’t elaborate. Aimee fist-pumps. “What?” Kate asks, confused.

“I had a bet with the guy in Unit P,” Aimee says. “I  _ told _ him you and Clint weren’t, like, a  _ thing. _ ” 

Kate shudders. “Ew.”

“Exactly!” Aimee laughs. She glances at the microwave clock. “Oh, hey! We’re all getting together to grill on the roof in a few. Celebrating the last few nice days of fall, and all that. You should tag along!” Kate shrugs again.

“Why not?” 

They bump into Clint as they’re coming out of Aimee’s apartment.

“Oh, hey, Ame—wait. You—?” he trails off, looking at Kate. She gestures impatiently for him to finish his thought. “Where’d you come from?” he finishes dumbly.

“Aimee’s apartment,” Kate says, reaching up to rap her knuckles against his skull. He ducks away and makes a face at her. She sticks her tongue out. Aimee, watching this exchange, laughs.

“I’ll meet you two up there,” she says, and vanishes up the staircase. Clint watches her go, then raises an eyebrow at Kate.

“No law that says I can’t hang out with your cooler tenants,” Kate says defiantly, crossing her arms.

“No, I know, just—hanging out?” Clint raises his eyebrows again meaningfully. Kate cocks her head in confusion. “I mean—isn’t she—like, you know…”

“Isn’t she what?” Kate asks, genuinely bewildered. This is weird behavior, even for Clint. His forehead creases in thought.

“Huh. I just thought—well, never mind, I guess.” he says vaguely, patting Kate’s shoulder awkwardly. She doesn’t know whether to be comforted or deeply concerned that they’re clearly equally confused by the other.

The hot dogs are good as usual. True to his name, Grills is a master of grilling. Clint and Kate stand towards the edge of the roof, savoring what is likely one of the last few warm breezes of the year. Kate half-pays attention to the game she’s playing on her phone—some sort of kill-em-all game with range mechanics.

“Did you ever kill anybody?” she asks, peeking at Clint out of the corner of her eye just in time to see the moment he registers a question has been asked; his eyes unglaze and she can almost hear the Wii music in his head pausing.

“‘Scuse me?” he says eloquently. 

“Did you ever kill anybody?” she repeats. She looks up now, genuinely interested in his answer. 

“Katie. The hell’s the matter with you?” he says, seeming taken aback.

“What? Nothing,” Kate says quickly. “I had some stuff. My guys and me.” Before she gets a chance to elaborate, Grills cuts in from where he’s still stationed at the grill a few feet away.

“Hell no that boy never killed anybody,” he says definitively. “They don’t let you in the Avengers if you kill people.”

Clint chuckles sarcastically and takes a sip of his beer. “I’m not an Avenger. I’m nobody.”

Grills and Kate make eye contact over Clint’s shoulder, then both look away, stifling grins. “What?” Clint demands. “Look at me, do I have superpowers or any of that kinda—aw, hell.”

Kate looks up to see what they’re aw-helling. Somehow, a S.H.I.E.L.D. aircraft had managed to silently and inconspicuously maneuver its way above them.

“Guys,” Clint says, his tone already defeated. Agents drop down from the ship on wires, and it’s clear who they’re headed for. “Guys—” Clint tries again, then “Guys!” indignantly as they grab him under the shoulders. “Guys?” he says, to the tenants gathered on the roof this time, imploringly. No one moves. One of the S.H.I.E.L.D. agents pries Clint’s fingers off his half-empty beer bottle, and it tumbles to the rooftop sadly.

“Pppssht. See? Avenger,” Grills says to no one in particular. Aimee walks over to stand next to Kate, both of them craning their necks to follow the aircraft’s slow exit.

“Joint custody of our favorite toddler, huh?” Aimee says dryly, elbowing Kate. “They take over often?”

“God, I wish.” Kate says.

 

She hangs out in Clint’s apartment. She figures on the off chance he doesn’t get back for a while, she should be there to hold down the fort or at the very least steal his cable. But Clint comes clambering back through the window hours later.

“Katie? The hell are you doing here? It’s like three in the morning.” Kate jolts awake in the chair she’d nodded off in and impresses herself by going from sleepy to defensive in T-minus two seconds.

“You’re coming at  _ me _ with the questions? You’re the one who just got kidnapped by the Avengers from a—”

“Those weren’t the Avengers, Katie.” Kate raises her eyebrows.

“Ah. Oh.  So—So…”

“Don’t ask. Okay? Just—no questions. I kinda gotta get out of here really fast and maybe you shouldn’t be around me right now.” That makes a little flare of indignation spark to life in Kate’s head. Clint pulls a fancy bow case from under his bed and unlatches it.

“Woah, how come I’ve never seen this one before?” Kate blurts. Holding her tongue has never been her strong suit. “Sorry. Question. Clint, let me help you. I trade on your name. What kind of you would I be if I didn’t help?

Clint sighs. “An  _ alive _ me. Kate, I—” He takes a deep breath. “For the next week or so get as far away from “Hawkeye” as you can. If it works out, you’ll know, and if it doesn’t—well, you’ll know that too.” He says the last bit with a tone of dark sarcasm that enough time spent around Clint has taught her is Bad News.

“Clint…” She doesn’t know what to say. She has a lot of feelings about this whole situation that she has not been given time to put into words. “Can I have your stuff when you’re dead?” she says instead. Clint snorts.

“Hell no. You’re rich. Buy your own stuff. Besides, S.H.I.E.L.D. will probably have to confiscate it for evidence.”

“Oh, c’mon!” Kate protests. She  _ wants _ that Etch-A-Sketch.

“Tell you what. If I die, you can have the case. It’s good for travel.”  
“Think I have quite enough of your baggage already, thanks,” Kate says. Zing! Oh, that was a good one. Kate high fives herself behind her back very subtly.

“Bye, Katie.” Clint says as he climbs back out the window.

“See you soon, Clint.” She replies. The window slides shut with grim finality. “One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi…” Kate counts to herself. “Ten Mississippi, aaand… go time.” She pulls out her phone and activates Clint’s tracking arrow. Before she can forget, she opens her notes app and writes down everything she’d managed to glimpse when Clint had moved his boarding pass from his bag to his pocket.

MADRIPOOR… 5:30 AM DIRECT

Kate’s pretty sure that her stubborn streak will be the death of her one day. Then again, people say the same thing about Clint all the time and it hasn’t happened yet. That’s probably a good sign.

Kate hasn’t been a superhero for long. She’s been Hawkeye for even less time. But even the short time carrying the mantle has taught her an important lesson: above all else, have each others’ backs. If Kate told Clint that she was in danger, and that he should stay away and not help for his own sake, there’s of course no way in Hell that he’d leave well enough alone; not when there’s dangerous business to poke his bandaged nose into. 

Not for the first time, but for what she hopes is the last time, Kate thinks “What would Clint do?” And with that in mind, she pulls on a blonde wig and books a ticket to Madripoor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi i am sorry that this has taken an absurdly long time to post! i don't have a good excuse at all except that i kept meaning to post it and then, not doing that. it happens i guess so oh well!!
> 
> song name notes etc idk what to call this: this chapter is named for "killer bangs" by honeyblood; here are the lyrics that specifically resonated with me/seemed fitting for kate:
> 
> "Time is against us  
> Circumstance likes to dick around  
> But there's a solution so simple  
> It's not all about who, who"
> 
> and
> 
> "I made this with you  
> Buckle down  
> You got to start your career now  
> The one you worked so hard for  
> Our way is blacked out  
> Fate like dumping another torch"
> 
> again thank you so much for reading and any feedback is appreciated!! and also you can find me on twitter @betterhawkguy and tumblr @hawkeye1964 and also, if you are interested, on spotify @bolognaghost where i make many character-specific playlists :D

**Author's Note:**

> also i just wanted to add (it's not that interesting but i think it's fun and it's entertaining to me so i'm saying it anyway) that each part/chapter in this series is going to be named after a song in my kate playlist (and maybe some from my hawkeye squared playlist) because 1) i am absolutely not original enough to think of that many titles and 2) i think it's kind of cool. and then at the end of each chapter, i will talk a little about the song the chapter is named for + why it's a Kate Song for me. this part of the series AND this chapter is named for "sick beat" by kero kero bonito and the specific lyrics that strike me as extremely kate are as follows:
> 
> "Whichever console you play  
> No matter how many hours a day  
> I could win at any game  
> Whether you're a boy, or a girl, or a super computer  
> It's often said I should get some girly hobbies instead  
> But that thought fills me with dread  
> I'm not into sewing, baking, dress-making  
> Not-eating, bitching, submitting"
> 
> thanks for reading once again!!! comments are hiiiighly appreciated i love feedback (even if it's not positive! feel free to leave constructive criticism! i just crave feedback in general)  
> ONE MORE EDIT I KEEP COMING BACK AND EDITING THINGS: i am on twitter @betterhawkguy and tumblr @hawkeye1964 !!!! please feel free to message me and strike up a conversation i am always always always willing to talk about comics (and the hawkeyes especially)


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